Poem by Thomas Hardy

To a Lady Playing and Singing in the Morning

Joyful lady, sing!
And I will lurk here listening,
Though nought be done, and nought begun,
And work-hours swift are scurrying.

Sing, O lady, still!
Aye, I will wait each note you trill,
Though duties due that press to do
This whole day long I unfulfil.

‘ – It is an evening tune;
One not designed to waste the noon,’
You say. I know: time bids me go –
For daytide passes too, too soon!

But let indulgence be,
This once, to my rash ecstasy:
When sounds nowhere that carolled air
My idled morn may comfort me!

1. The End of the Episode
2. Barthelemon at Vauxhall
3. The Month’s Calendar
4. Revulsion
5. At Waking

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